


Almonds and Aniseed

by shinychimera, Yeomanrand



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Character Study, Female-Centric, Gen, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinychimera/pseuds/shinychimera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the first day of the rest of her life, Molly prepares a bewitching teatime treat for her mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almonds and Aniseed

_The torch of love is lit (and passed) in the kitchen. _— Author unknown__

Molly hums softly to herself in the kitchen, giving a quick flick of her wrist to flip the layer of almonds and aniseed toasting in the pan, filling the air with the aromas of licorice and love. She decides from the colour that they are ready, and tips them out onto the cutting board. By the time she's cracked and separated her eggs, beating the yolks into the big green bowl with the rest of her viscous not-quite-cake-batter, the almonds have cooled enough to tilt into a plastic bag for crushing.

The crunch of her rolling pin makes a pleasing counterpoint to the quiet rasp of her mother's knitting needles in the next room, the two rhythms together underlying the music of family conversation on this special day.

Aunt Leah is doing her part to keep Mum entertained and out of the kitchen, giving Molly space to work her teatime magic. Still humming, she pours the crushed almonds into her spice grinder then pulverises them to a fine powder atop the dry ingredients in the red bowl. Molly accepts her mum can't help fussing: so pleased and proud to have her daughter going off to study medicine, so worried her awkward Molly will be too much alone in the chaos of London, so quietly sad about the looming empty house, with Da gone less than a year.

But going to London isn't going to her grave. Molly pours about half of the flour-almond mixture into her sieve and and begins sifting it, pausing to fold it lightly into the batter as she goes. This cake, when it's done, will help to ease Mum's nerves, and Molly has already packed a stationery set in the bottom of her bag, as well as a handful of postcards carefully selected to bring out her mother's beautiful smile.

When the rest of the flour has gone in and she's sure everything else is ready — oven heated, cake pan prepared, batter perfectly mixed — she takes a deep breath, picks up the the blue bowl with the egg whites and begins whisking swiftly, folding in comfort and her own bright hopes along with air until the whites begin coming to soft peaks.

It's not that Molly doesn't have fears of her own, of course she does. She's making a huge change, but she's looking forward to new experiences and, yes, new people who haven't been categorising her into certain boxes since the age of five. She's not always good at making social connections, but she's no longer afraid to try, so she's hardly _mousy_ anymore. And she's long since outgrown the terror inspired by the likes of Mean Mister Mitchell in primary school; now that she's learned words like _contemptuous_ and _misogynist_ she knows perfectly well she never was a _stupid girl_. 

But her mum has watched over Molly with tender finger-curled-over-lip anxiety through all her years of stumbling progress: nursing Molly's hurts, large and small, filling the lonely spaces around her with sympathy and song and a sly sense of humour, and inspiring Molly to always, always keep going with her head held high. Molly smiles and shifts her humming to a major key — the beginning of her mother's favourite hymn — while folding the fluffy egg whites into the batter, engrossed in the pleasure of bringing simple, orderly beauty out of a confused collection of humble ingredients. 

No mother can help but see a wide-eyed little girl when she looks at her daughter — of course it's hard for Mum to see the quiet magic she's wrought inside of Molly, just as it's hard to perceive the comforting witchery Molly has learned to weave into her recipes. Swift and efficient, she tips the contents of the green bowl into the cake pan, scraping the sides before the batter can settle, then slides pan and cake into the warm oven and gently closes the door. She inhales deeply. The preparations are finished, nothing left but waiting for everything to come to completion. Now that her day is here, Molly's heart is filled with fond memories and anticipation and a complex joy, just as the air folded into her egg whites will lift her cake with thermal expansion. 

Laughter cascades from the parlour, and the rhythm of the knitting needles comes to a stop; the two sisters rise, teasing each other about who will set the table and who will prepare and serve the tea today.

Molly hangs her apron up on the hook, welcoming them into her domain with smiles and hugs, confident that she'll be able to weather the occasional draft far better than the delicate sponge cake soon to be perfuming the air.


End file.
